


i'm going to go back there someday

by CutiePi



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, M/M, Nonbinary Linhardt von Hevring, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Trans Caspar von Bergliez, an attempt, but most takes place during timeskip, itll be pretty minor but it will exist, starts pre canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CutiePi/pseuds/CutiePi
Summary: Linhardt grows up the obedient son and heir of Count Hevring.Worse than that, he grows up alone.(Or: an au in which Linhardt and Caspar are not childhood friends.)
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 53
Kudos: 120





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK i am Attempting do a longfic, which ive never done before, and a slowburn, which ive ALSO never done before. bear with me here.
> 
> mind the tags, ill update them as necessary as the fic goes. it shouldnt get too heavy at any point but ill put warnings in the chapter notes so you know what to expect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt misses an important meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so WARNINGS for this chapter: caspar is trans, and this chapter takes place before hes out, so characters use she/her pronouns and female-coded language for him. note that caspar doesnt HAVE a deadname as far as im concerned, so hes not referred to by that at all. it should only be this chapter but just be aware of that!

**_Guardian Moon, 1169_ **

Linhardt von Hevring is six years old and waking up from a nap, curled against his father’s side. He isn’t entirely certain what woke him—his father is as quiet as he ever is—before he realizes the rattling of the carriage and stomping of horses’ hooves has stopped. They’re here, wherever “here” is.

“Father?” he asks, not too loud. Father doesn’t like it when he’s too loud. “‘re we here?”

His father looks down at him, looking a little surprised. Linhardt vaguely wonders why. “Yes, Linhardt,” he says. “We’re visiting Count Bergliez. I told you, remember?”

Linhardt nods. He does remember, or rather he remembers Father telling him. The name itself didn’t stick with him, and he’s still not sure _why_ they had to travel all this way just to meet this man, but Father must think it’s important. Oh, well. As long as he still gets a chance to nap.

“Come on, Linhardt,” his father says, lifting him out of the carriage and putting him down on smooth pavement. He sways a little on his feet—he’s still tired, and after the rocking of the carriage he isn’t used to solid ground. “This way,” his father says insistently, and he’s walking into—oh, Linhardt hadn’t noticed that quite yet. It’s a house, like his, big and fancy. Father would probably call it an _estate_. He stares at it for a few moments before he realizes his father isn’t going to wait for him to follow, and he hurries a little to catch up to his long-legged stride.

Even as fast as he goes, his father is still deep in conversation with a servant when he catches up. “Yes, Count Bergliez is in his study,” the woman is saying. “The young Lord Bergliez is in instructions with his combat tutor, but I’m certain your son could meet him–” She seems to catch sight of him then as he clings to his father’s robes, and she offers him a small nod and a smile.

“I don’t want my son dragged into brutish training exercises,” Father says impatiently. “What about the other one? The second child? That one’s his age, isn’t that right?”

The servant smiles apologetically and says, too easily, Linhardt thinks, “I’m afraid the young Lady Bergliez is feeling unwell. It’s unlikely Your Lordship will have the chance to meet her during your visit.”

“I didn’t know there would be a child my age,” Linhardt pipes up. Father runs a hand over his hair without sparing him a glance, which means _Hush, the adults are talking_.

“That’s a shame,” Father tuts. “In that case, he’ll just have to stick with me. Come along, now, Linhardt.”

Once again, his father sets off without him, assuming he’ll be right behind. Linhardt hesitates—he wants to meet the child his age, since Mother is always telling him he should make friends, and he nearly tells the servant that he’d like to meet this Lady Bergliez sometime, please, if she’s feeling better. But he doesn’t want to get lost in this big house, so he scampers after his father, hurrying to keep up, to meet Count Bergliez.

True to the serving woman’s word, the second child of Count Bergliez is locked away, apparently sick, the entire three days Linhardt and his father are visiting. Instead, he lingers by his father’s side, trying to get a sense of who exactly this Count Bergliez is, or with the older son, Emeric, who’s older and stronger and meaner, teasing Linhardt for his naps or for losing when he makes them spar. It all makes him very sleepy, and he thinks he could stand locking himself up with the sickly younger Bergliez so he can get some peace and quiet.

“She’s not even sick, you know,” Emeric scoffs when the topic comes up.

“Hm?” Linhardt says, a little interested but already knowing to fear his tone.

“Stupid baby’s not even sick. They just have to say that so you don’t have to meet her. Because she’s an _embarrassment_. That’s what Father said.” Linhardt’s confusion must show on his face, because he goes on. “She’s loud and messy, and always picking fights, and not very ladylike at all. That’s what Father says.”

“Oh,” Linhardt says. He feels bad for the poor Lady Bergliez, to have her father and her brother say such mean things about her. At the same time, he thinks maybe it’s for the best he can’t meet her. If Emeric isn’t too loud or aggressive to meet visitors, Linhardt’s a little afraid of what the unpresentable child is like.

Luckily, their stay is over quickly, and Linhardt gets to go home, where he can nap all he wants without being made fun of, where he doesn’t have to think about little children locked away for being too loud. He only barely says goodbye to Count Bergliez and Emeric before he’s hiding away in the carriage, waiting for Father to join him so they can leave this odd place behind. As the carriage rumbles away, his father sighs.

“What a mess,” he mutters.

“Father?” Linhardt asks, curiously.

Once again, Father gives him that surprised look, but he explains anyway. “That second child of theirs,” he says. “The one your age, remember?” Linhardt nods. “I’ve heard such things about her. It’s a shame, really. For a while, I thought perhaps you two could be wed.”

Linhardt tilts his head. “Wed?”

“Married. I thought she could be your wife someday, and you two could be Mother and Father to your own children.”

Linhardt nods. That makes sense. “Why can’t we?”

His father snorts, looking out the window; Linhardt can feel himself disappearing from his mind. “She simply won’t do. What a disaster it would be.”

Linhardt sits back against the seat, looking out at the rolling landscape himself. He’s glad he doesn’t have to marry her if it would be a disaster. But he hopes he gets to meet her, someday.

Linhardt gets older. He and the second child of House Bergliez never cross paths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY i hope you liked it so far! as a heads up updates will probably be SLOW, like really slow, but i def plan to finish this!! please be patient with me lol
> 
> im @atinygayfrog on twitter, come hang out and tell me what you think so far, if you like!
> 
> last but not least: have a good day!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some years pass, and a lot changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i got another chapter out! yippee! thank you all so much for your comments on the last chapter, im glad people are excited for this!!
> 
> warnings this chapter: deliberate misgendering and mild transphobia in this chapter. this is most likely the most extreme transphobia that will be actually shown, but its still not horribly intense. also implied child abuse in like a single line
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

**_Wyvern Moon, 1172_ **

Linhardt doesn’t return to Bergliez territory for a few years after his first visit. Rather, Count Bergliez comes to them in Hevring—not just him, either, but tons of important-looking noblemen and messengers. Father doesn’t want him meeting any of them, which just piques his curiosity more. His attempts to spy on his father’s dealings with them go disastrously awry, until finally Father pulls him aside, voice serious.

“You are making a fool of yourself,” he says, and Linhardt pouts a bit.

“I just want to  _ know _ –” he starts, but Father cuts him off.

“We are doing important work,” he says. “You need to learn how to be good and do as you’re told. Do you understand?”

Linhardt wants to complain, or ask questions, or anything, but Father looks so serious, and when he talks to him like this he feels small, and embarrassed, and wrong. Deep down, he thinks of naughty children, too loud, locked away. He closes his mouth tight and nods, and his father says, “Good boy. Focus on your lessons,” and runs a hand over his hair, and Linhardt returns to his reading and stops thinking about unfamiliar men talking in serious voices.

It is many years later that he learns what they were talking about—the Insurrection of the Seven, the nobles seizing power—but what he learns soon is that Father will be spending more time working in Enbarr. He also learns that Father wants Linhardt there with him, at least sometimes, to meet the other heirs who will one day plot politics with him behind closed doors.

Linhardt is eight years old and spending weeks at a time in Enbarr, with his father in some senses but in every other with teachers and tutors and other young nobles like himself. Emeric is there often, but there are others, too—the sullen heir to House Vestra, several years older and adamantly refusing to speak or be spoken to; glimpses of the daughter of Count Varley, though she is most frequently home, in her territory; and worst of all, the legitimate heir to House Aegir, Ferdinand von Aegir, who reminds anyone who will listen of his name and rank and does everything in his power to befriend the rest of them.

Linhardt, needless to say, is  _ miserable _ .

Emeric and Ferdinand are the only heirs he has any hope of speaking to, and Emeric has only gotten bigger and older and meaner since they met in Bergliez. Ferdinand, on the other hand, talks about being noble like if he doesn’t say it he’ll  _ die _ . He’s always talking to Linhardt and asking about what he’s been doing, and his  _ studies _ , which is really just an excuse for him to brag. He, like Emeric, tries to drag Linhardt into sparring sessions with him and, unlike Emeric, cries if he loses. He always reminds Linhardt of his noble duties, to be a model for the people, to work hard to do what his father asks so he can one day take his place. Worst of all, he’s always waking Linhardt up from his naps.

Linhardt doesn’t  _ hate _ Ferdinand von Aegir; his mother says hating is serious, and that he can only  _ hate _ people who are seriously bad, so Linhardt doesn’t hate Ferdinand. He doesn’t like him, though—he wishes he’d leave him alone, and stop bragging, and stop talking to him about nobility and duty and succession. But his father’s voice rings in his head— _ Make connections, be polite, be good _ —and his mother always wants him trying to make friends, and so: Linhardt nods along as Ferdinand talks, and answers his questions, and agrees to spar with him, sometimes, just to lose and make him feel better, and he even lets Ferdinand wake him up from his naps without complaint and says, “Oh, yes, I have been sleeping too long.”

Linhardt  _ does _ hate Emeric, he decides, and he thinks he’s justified. Emeric is a bully, playing mean pranks and making people fight him just to knock them down, telling other children to do his schoolwork and taking all the credit for everything, calling people names—Linhardt gets  _ so mad _ when he calls people names, whether that person is sullen Hubert von Vestra, who probably deserves it, or meek little Bernadetta von Varley, who definitely doesn’t. He doesn’t make friends with Emeric, like his mother would want him to; in fact, he barely tolerates him, only  _ barely _ being as polite as his father (and Ferdinand) would expect of him.

This doesn’t stop Emeric from spending time with him, and once, while Linhardt grudgingly does his coursework for him (poorly, because he isn’t  _ that _ polite), Emeric brings up a figure who’s lingered in Linhardt’s mind ever since they nearly crossed paths.

“That awful baby doesn’t live with us anymore,” he says, unprompted, and the surprise of  _ that _ news is enough to stop Linhardt from writing.

“What?”

“She got even  _ stupider _ ,” Emeric scoffs. He grins, and it isn’t a nice look at all. “Kept saying she was a  _ boy _ , and telling us to stop calling her by her name—isn’t that stupid?”

“What happened?” Linhardt says, eyes wide. His heart is racing, and he’s not sure why, but he has to know, suddenly. He  _ has to know _ .

“Father said no,” Emeric says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “So she ran away.”

Linhardt’s gaping, which his etiquette tutor says is rude, but he can’t help it. He could never run away from home, he thinks, even if it would mean no more miserable trips to Enbarr. The image of Emeric’s sibling is morphing in his mind, from a lonely girl locked in a room to a rebellious young boy, running to escape a horrible family like Emeric and Count Bergliez. “So… did you find hi–”

“She’s staying with my  _ stupid _ uncle, now,” he says, sneering. “They have to take care of her now. Their loss.” Emeric’s chest puffs with pride. “Father says that’s where she belongs, anyway. He says that’s the  _ losing _ side of the family. He’s just upset ‘cause Grandfather’s money still goes to them. But I don’t care about that. I’m just glad I don’t have to see that ugly face or listen to that awful voice anymore.” His voice goes up several octaves as he imitates, “‘Wah, stop it, Emeric, that’s not  _ nice _ . Ouch, Emeric, you’re hurting me.’” He snorts. “You know, I–”

Linhardt doesn’t stay to listen, pushing out of his chair and walking off without a word. He hates Emeric more than anything, he thinks, as he storms away. He’s just a bully. The worst bully in the world.

He spends the rest of the day in Father’s apartments, reading and napping and asking the servants politely if they would tell any of the other children who might stop by to go away, please. He waits until dinner with his father to actually talk about the thing he’d learned.

“Did you hear about Emeric’s brother?”

His father stops, then slowly lowers his fork, looking at him in interest. This is the most Linhardt’s ever felt that his father was listening to him, and it makes him nervous. “What was that?”

He gulps, but refuses to back down. “The second son. Emeric’s brother. Did you hear?”

Father sighs, turning back to his meal. “Don’t call them that.”

“What? I thought he said he was a–”

“Linhardt,” his father says seriously, once again looking at him. “The Bergliez family is  _ very important _ . We need them to like us so that our own house can succeed. Do you understand?”

Linhardt frowns, tilting his head. “Why does that mean I can’t call him–”

“ _ Because _ , Linhardt, I don’t want you upsetting Count Bergliez or his son. In fact, I want you to forget the whole story. Understood?”

Linhardt’s frown deepens, and he puts his own fork down. “But that’s not  _ right _ . Why would I say something that isn’t–”

“Linhardt, I asked if you understood.”

There’s a warning to his father’s tone, and a part of him tells him to agree and do as Father says, as he always does. But he’s— _ angry _ , he realizes, about everything he’s learned today. He screws his face up. “I just don’t know why I can’t–”

“ _ Linhardt _ .”

It’s barely a change in volume, but it’s louder than his father normally is, and he’s looking at Linhardt in that way that makes him feel small and wrong. He shrinks in his seat, looking back down at his plate. “Yes, Father,” he says quietly. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” Father says, sounding relieved. “That’s very good, Linhardt. Believe me, it’s best if you forget all about this.” Linhardt doesn’t answer.

That night, alone in his room, Linhardt cries into his pillow for reasons he can’t even understand—frustration? distress? He can’t say. But when his tears have dried up, they’ve taken the memory with them, locking it in some corner of his mind just like his father had wanted. He’s so tired, he realizes, and he curls up and goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: heehee linhardt can meet the other nobles  
> me looking at the timeline and realizing the lineup of nobles who would even be in enbarr: dear lord
> 
> sorry for bullying ferdinand but you cannot tell me he wasnt the most obnoxious kid. hall monitor teachers pet little fucker. i love him tho
> 
> as always, comments are appreciated! and i want to remind yall that not all updates are gonna be as quick as this one OOPS but i will continue to upload chapters as soon as theyre ready so you dont have to wait so long
> 
> LASTLY im bad at tagging so if you notice anything that should get a tag please feel free to let me know!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt meets someone important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got another update for yall! not... very much happens this chapter, but. yknow. lins just living.
> 
> no warnings for this one! enjoy!

**_Verdant Rain Moon, 1174_ **

Linhardt spends a few years going back and forth between Enbarr and Hevring Estate, time in which his father mostly stays within the capital to deal with whatever duties he has running the country. Linhardt doesn’t really understand why his father (and Emeric’s and Hubert’s and Bernadetta’s and  _ especially _ Ferdinand’s) runs the country instead of the emperor, but he’s learned not to ask questions of his father, who undoubtedly understands the situation far better than he can.

It is because of this belief that he doesn’t question his father abruptly sending him away one summer’s day. He hardly minds, anyway—he still truly  _ hates _ spending time with the others in Enbarr (especially since he’s seeing less of everyone, aside from Ferdinand and Emeric)—but it does strike him as odd to return from tutoring one day to find his bags already packed.

“Your mother misses you,” Father says by way of explanation. It’s a shoddy one, at that—Mother  _ often _ misses him, and Linhardt her, but that’s never dictated whether he stays or goes before. Linhardt doesn’t question it. “You’re going to spend some time with her. Visit the sea.”

Linhardt likes the sea—it’s soothing, in a way he can’t quite articulate—so he simply nods. In an hour, he’s in a carriage on the road back home. His mother looks surprised to see him, when he arrives, but she doesn’t ask any questions, either.

* * *

About a month later, Father writes that he should return to Enbarr, so once again Linhardt packs his things and sets off. The capital is quieter than he’s used to; most of the other noble children have returned to their territories, though their parents remain. He still glimpses Ferdinand from time to time, and after a week he’s actually bored enough that he goes asking after him, desperate for  _ any _ sort of company, only to find out that he’s gone home, too. 

Linhardt shrugs to himself—he doesn’t particularly like Ferdinand, anyway, so he can use this opportunity to do as he pleases, an ability he’d almost forgotten he  _ had _ . Sadly, there are no fishing ponds around, so he makes do with other activities, reading old tomes and examining the portraiture and napping in the shade. It’s peaceful, at least, if not a bit boring.

One day, he’s reading out in the gardens when he’s approached. He doesn’t look up, at first, too engrossed in what he’s doing to care much who it is, but then the visitor clears their throat for his attention, and he begrudgingly bookmarks his page and looks up.

It’s a young girl, probably close to his age, short, with striking white hair and pale purple eyes. Despite the humid heat hanging in the air, she’s covered completely from the neck down, wearing a sweater, tights, and gloves with her dress. Dimly, Linhardt registers Hubert lingering nearby, watching intently—when has Hubert  _ ever _ been one to spend time with other children?—but he’s mostly captivated by the girl, the way she carries herself so confidently, like an adult, her face serious but a light glinting behind her eyes. Curious, Linhardt thinks. She wants to know who he is.

“Hello,” she says simply. She even  _ sounds _ grown-up, even though her voice is pitched just like every other little girl Linhardt’s ever met.

“Good day,” he says. He feels oddly alert, like something in the way she looks at him is pricking at him. It isn’t an uncomfortable sensation, not really, and it feels  _ wholly _ different from the anxiety stoked by his father’s assessments. “Would you like to sit?”

“That’s alright.” She tilts her head, just the slightest bit, eyes wide and studying. “You’re reading.”

“I was.” He shifts the book on his lap, but doesn’t take his eyes off her. He blurts, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

A slow blink. A tilted head. Her face remains impassive. He thinks, to the side of her, he sees the shadow of Hubert move closer. “I’ve been away,” she says plainly. “In the Kingdom. But I’m back now.”

Linhardt nods, then remembers his manners. “I’m Linhardt. Linhardt von Hevring.”

She smiles, just a little. It feels like a victory. “It’s very nice to meet you. My name is Edelgard.” She doesn’t introduce Hubert. Perhaps she knows they’ve already met, albeit briefly. Perhaps she forgets him as easily as Linhardt does. “How old are you?”

“Ten,” he says, which sounds so horribly boring, all of a sudden, even if it is just the truth. “I’ll be eleven in a few months, though,” he adds quickly. “The Red Wolf Moon.”

Edelgard’s smile brightens, just a touch. “ _ Almost _ eleven, then,” she says. “I’m twelve. But just barely. My birthday was this past Garland Moon.”

Linhardt nods again. He feels like he’s ruining this conversation, but he hardly knows how to fix it. “Well,” he says awkwardly. For some reason, talking to Edelgard is completely different than talking to any other children. She’s judging him, but not in the way adults do, and somehow that makes it not-unpleasant. What she’s looking for feels  _ different _ , somehow, though Linhardt has no idea what that is. “It’s nice to meet you, Edelgard.”

“Likewise. Would you like me to leave?”

He doesn’t expect that. He blinks, a little confused. “No,” he says at length. “I like you.” Edelgard  _ beams _ , and it nearly takes him out for its unexpectedness. “But I think if you stay, you should sit down.”

Finally, Edelgard acknowledges Hubert, turning to look over her shoulder at him. Linhardt looks at him, too—he looks more tired than ever, though he also looks far less sullen than he’s used to. He dips his head slightly—a nod? a bow? a show of respect? Linhardt doesn’t have time to puzzle it out before Edelgard’s turning her attention back to him, and he to her in turn. “I would like to sit for a little while, if that’s alright.”

“Go ahead,” he says, and scoots over to make room beneath the tree. She sits, leaving a gap of space between them, and peers at his book.

“You’re reading about Crests?”

“Oh, yes.” The text is a bit basic, but the librarian had  _ assured _ him it was a good place to start. “I bear one. The Crest of Cethleann. I was curious to know more about it, since it helps my magic.”

Edelgard looks up at him, eyes gleaming. “You know magic?”

“Oh—well–” He feels embarrassed. “Yes, a little. Mostly Faith, but I’ve been practicing Reason a bit, too. I only know a basic Wind spell.”

“That’s very impressive,” she says, and he glows. “Hubert studies Reason, too.” Linhardt had forgotten he was there—he’s still standing aside, watching Edelgard carefully. “I think he’s learning Dark magic, though.”

“Interesting,” Linhardt says politely. He doesn’t care for Dark magic, and he certainly doesn’t care what Hubert does or doesn’t learn when they’ve barely exchanged two words. They lapse into silence, sitting beneath the tree, before his curiosity gets the better of him, and he asks, “You’re a noble, right?”

Edelgard looks at him, startled. “Oh—yes, I am. Forgive me, I didn’t properly introduce myself. My name is Edelgard von Hresvelg.”

_ That’s _ a shock to Linhardt’s systems. He gapes at her, eyes wide— _ this _ is the Imperial Princess? He sits up straighter and attempts an awkward bow. “Oh—my apologies, Your H–”

“No, no,” she says, and when he chances a glance up at her, her brow is furrowed. “None of that, please. I… I’m only a child, anyway.”

Linhardt gulps and nods. “Yes.”

“I’m no different than—Hubert, here, or you, or Ferdinand—have you met Ferdinand?” He nods mutely. “And you don’t need to treat me any different from them.” The cool, adult professionalism falls from her voice, and she quietly says, “Please.”

Linhardt looks at her, studying. He’d heard very little about the imperial family, though he now remembers hearing that she  _ was _ in the Kingdom the past few years. How unfortunate, that she should come back right when so many of the other heirs were leaving. She must be terribly lonely, even if Hubert is, apparently, willing to spend time with her. He finds himself nodding before he’s even realized he’s made up his mind. “Alright. Edelgard. I’m sorry.”

She smiles—small, fragile, relieved. “That’s alright, Linhardt. I–”

The clocktower chimes, and Edelgard looks at Hubert. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry, I would love to stay, but I’m afraid I have lessons.” She stands, carefully brushing herself off. “I’ll see you later, Linhardt.”

He nods. “Yes. I would like that. Goodbye, Edelgard.”

One last smile, and then she’s off, Hubert trailing behind.

* * *

Linhardt doesn’t see much of Edelgard around, which he decides is a shame—she’s very nice, and she really had looked so lonely. Without her, and with so many of the other children gone, Enbarr continues to be horribly boring, so he throws himself into his studies harder than ever before, his Faith especially improving at a quick pace. His teachers steer him from certain research topics—fishing, farming techniques, and breeds of cats are all unsuited for a young nobleman like himself, and he should focus on studies of history and politics instead. His father seems proud with every report, and Linhardt thrives on his silent approval. 

Finally, his hard work seems to pay off, as over dinner his father asks, “Linhardt. How are you liking Enbarr?”

Linhardt is a good, well-behaved child. Still, he chooses honesty over placating lies. “I don’t. It’s too hot here, and the other children bother me.”

He thinks Father looks amused at that. “I hope you aren’t so rude to them.”

Linhardt shakes his head rapidly. “No, sir. I’m very polite.”

“Good, good.” A brief pause, as they both pick at their meals, then: “Your tutors tell me you excel in your lessons.”

“Yes, Father,” he says, pride stirring in his chest. Politeness doesn’t come easily to him, but studiousness—that does. “I do my best.”

“Good.” Linhardt latches onto the meager praise. “Perhaps I should allow you to focus on your studies.”

“Father?”

“You’re getting older, Linhardt. You’ve spent some time playing with your peers, but I think it’s time I start preparing you for the future.”

Linhardt tilts his head. “The future?”

Father looks at him, and he half expects to be lectured for asking so many pointless questions. Instead, he says, “Yes, Linhardt, the future. One day you will be in charge of Hevring, as well as taking over my position as Minister of Domestic Affairs. You need to prepare for that day, and it’s time I teach you.”

Linhardt blinks. He’d known all this, of course, but this sounds like his father is going to be spending more time with him. Teaching him  _ personally _ . “Does… that mean we’re going home? To Hevring?”

His father smiles. “Yes, Linhardt. We’ll return to Hevring soon, and you likely won’t return here for some time. Is that what you want?”

Linhardt beams, nodding. “Yes, Father. I would like that very much.”

“And what do you say?”

“ _ Thank you _ , Father.”

His father laughs. “Good boy. Stay focused on your lessons, in the meantime, and be sure to say goodbye to your friends. You may keep in touch with them via letter, if you wish.”

He already knows that won’t be necessary, but he doesn’t say as much. He simply nods. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Linhardt leaves for Hevring territory not a month later, feeling as though a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders. He may not care much for politics, and he’s sure these new responsibilities will take time away from his naps, play time, and personal studies, but if it means he gets to stay home, and spend time with his father, he’ll gladly take it.

Finally, he thinks. He won’t be so lonely anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did linhardt have a little baby crush on edelgard? whos to say. i just want her to have FRIENDS.
> 
> theres so much background political stuff happening here which i dont have to address bc lins a child and doesnt know any of it. i stay winning.
> 
> leave a comment if you enjoyed please! next chapter will probably be pretty short and nothing-y but at least it should be the last chapter of the prologue section before we start getting into the good stuff, so look forward to that!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classes begin at the Officers Academy, and everything in Linhardt's life changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been a bit since my last chapter and this ones admittedly pretty short, but, well, here it is! 
> 
> as a heads up, going forward: years in fe3h technically run from 4 (great tree moon) to 3 (lone moon), so even though this chapter takes place in 2 (pegasus moon) of 1179, its only 2 months before the school year starts in 4 (great tree moon) of 1180. basically, its like it goes from march 2019 to april 2020, instead of december 2019 to january 2020. ive been using this convention all along and im going to keep using it going forward, i just figured i should clarify before we get too far and things get confusing.
> 
> no warnings. enjoy!

**_Pegasus Moon, 1179_ **

“Linhardt,” Father says at breakfast one cold morning.

Engrossed as he is in his reading, Linhardt barely gives any indication he’s listening. He is, of course, and Father knows that. The idea of  _ actually _ ignoring his father never even occurs to him. Father, recognizing he has his attention, resolutely presses onward.

“In a few months time, lessons will begin at the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery.” Linhardt looks over at him, blinking. Curious, inasmuch as he experiences much curiosity.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, listen. This is looking to be a prosperous year for the academy—the Imperial Princess will be attending, along with most of the heirs of the Empire’s major houses.” Not Emeric, Linhardt knows; unfortunately, while his trips to Enbarr had ground to a halt, he still occasionally travels to Bergliez with his father, and has had the displeasure of speaking with the brute and listening to him brag about his graduation. That year he’d spent away at Garreg Mach had been a blessing. “This would be an auspicious year for you to join them—make connections, learn important skills.” Father raises an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

This isn’t the first such offer Linhardt’s received—a few years ago, Father suggested he attend the School of Sorcery in Fhirdiad to further hone his magical abilities. He hadn’t seen the point, since his magic was coming along just fine under the direction of his father and a now much smaller team of tutors. Why travel so far and go through the trouble of meeting all those new people when the benefits were so insignificant?

His answer now is the same. “No, that’s alright,” he says simply, turning back to his book.

He feels his father’s gaze on him and reminds himself not to be nervous. “No? Linhardt, this could be a valuable opportunity. A good many respected men have graduated the Officers Academy, and this is the best time to go.”

Linhardt nods, eyes still trained on his book. “Yes, I know. But I already know magic, so I fail to see what more use military training will be to me.” He pauses, expecting agreement, but his father remains silent. Odd, but oh, well. He continues. “And I’ve met the other heirs before. They know me well enough that I’m certain we’ll be able to work well together in the future.” He flips a page. “Besides, I have much more to learn here.” This is also true—his father has taught him much about the running of Hevring territory, but he senses the intricacies of his other future title, Minister of the Interior, still elude him. Linhardt fails to see how some silly school will prepare him for that. Moreover, he’s surprised Father wouldn’t already feel the same way. It must be the presence of the other nobles, he reasons, that inspires him to even entertain the idea.

At length, his father replies, “Yes, I suppose those are good enough reasons to stay. But the Officers Academy is not without its own benefits, and I would not stop you from attending. Are you certain you’d rather stay?”

Linhardt, thinking of the drudgery of meeting new people and forcing himself to be polite, without a single moment for himself, doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, Father. I’m certain.”

* * *

Linhardt does not, in the end, regret his decision to stay away from the Officers Academy. The stories he hears—assassination attempts, mysterious professors with more mysterious weapons, betrayals, kidnappings, horrible experiments—they’re all enough to make him want to hole himself up in the estate for the rest of his  _ life _ . And as it turns out, they’re only the start of it.

Father delivers the news to him one afternoon during the Pegasus Moon, a year after he made his decision. Linhardt’s in the library when his whole world goes upside down.

“The Emperor has declared war against the Church of Seiros.”

He snaps to attention, eyes wide. “ _ What _ ?”

“Linhardt, listen, I don’t care to repeat myself.”

“But–” He has a million protests tripping over themselves to be said. Emperor Ionius is supposed to be weak and all but powerless—as confusing as the political situation is to him, he understands that much. “But—how?”

His father gives him a look that means  _ you’re asking inane questions again _ . “Emperor Edelgard–”  _ That _ knocks the breath out of him. She’s ascended the throne? “-has declared the Church of Seiros corrupt, and its Archbishop a fraud. The Empire will go to war with the Church and its allies—as of now, the Kingdom, though the Alliance may yet pledge its allegiance either way.”

It hits Linhardt with a sinking sensation that his father doesn’t seem at all surprised by this development. He’s transported back to his childhood, confused and floundering, apparently not worth trusting with valuable information, as all at once he realizes: his father knew this was coming and chose not to inform him, his  _ heir _ .

“What happens next?” His tone is utterly flat as he shuts his fears and anxieties away to be examined later. 

“You will continue your studies with me,” Father says. “I see no reason to send you to war, nor to concern you with the specifics. My work will intensify, and I’ll need your assistance now more than ever. In fact, I’ll have you take the bulk of the responsibility running the territory—I think you’re ready, now, and it would be of great help to me.” Linhardt nods mutely. He’s still trying to grapple with the notion that they’re at war. They’re at  _ war _ . “Linhardt. Let Edelgard wage her war.”  _ She’s eighteen _ , he thinks dully.  _ She’s barely older than me, and she’s running a country. Waging a war _ .

He doesn’t voice his concerns. “Yes, Father,” he says softly. “I’ll focus on my duties.”

Father smiles. It does nothing to ease Linhardt’s tension. “That’s a good boy. Go on, finish your studying. We’ll start you on your responsibilities tomorrow.”

Father leaves Linhardt floundering, alone in the library. Edelgard is his age—a student. He imagines starting a war. He imagines  _ fighting _ a war—surely, the other students at the Officers Academy are joining the effort. He made the right choice, staying home. But. If he’d gone, he might feel prepared for this—this disrupted peace, this looming threat on the horizon. The Church of Seiros is powerful on its own, and already the Kingdom has declared its allegiance? How can Linhardt forget about the war when already he feels the danger of it at his back?

Linhardt barely sleeps that night. His dreams are consumed with nightmares of fire and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO okay so with this chapter we are OUT of the prologue-y portion of this fic! from here on out things will get a bit more substantial. chapters will probably be longer, which means updates are also likely to be slower. im also entering exam season, and that'll only be a few weeks but itll slow me down a lot, so just a heads up there!
> 
> i hoped you liked this chapter! i cant wait to get into the next part of the story. leave a comment, if you like, and have a great day!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt finally leaves home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright! now we're getting to the good part and im very excited for everything going forward! yippee!
> 
> fun fact: the last section of this chapter is actually the first thing i wrote for this fic! waow!
> 
> warnings: discussions of blood and injuries. not too graphic
> 
> enjoy!

**_Ethereal Moon, 1181_ **

As horrifying as the news of war is, it ends up affecting little of Linhardt’s life. As promised, his father hands over many of the duties associated with running the county to him while he handles complicated territorial disputes and the redistribution of food supplies and a million other things Linhardt can barely wrap his head around. As a result, Linhardt actually finds himself with more free time than he expected—looking after Hevring territory is surprisingly straightforward, and since his father is far too busy to assign him more tasks, he instead has time to focus on reading and studying as he pleases. He even indulges in a nap or two, just when work gets overwhelming.

As a whole, terrible though it may be, Linhardt finds himself not minding the war much. Of course, he’s certain he’d feel differently in his father’s shoes, as he seems to be receiving reports on dreadful statistics like death tolls and lost ground and whatever else. He certainly doesn’t  _ enjoy _ looking at financial records and filling out papers, but for all its drudgery it’s at least rather simple. In all honesty, from his perspective, the war is terribly unobtrusive.

That is, for nearly a year.

Then, his father’s calling him to his study—never a good sign. He looks exhausted, with dark bags under his eyes. As always, his posture is perfect, but Linhardt can see how tense he is and knows he’s physically straining to keep his perfect composure.

“Linhardt,” he says, diction precise as ever, as Linhardt gives a polite bow. “Please, take a seat.”

Linhardt fights back nerves—after all, he hasn’t done anything wrong—as he sits across the desk from Father. “You called me?”

“Yes, I did.” He sighs, sagging the slightest bit. Linhardt’s brow furrows. “I’ve received a letter from the Imperial Army requisitioning troops from Hevring. I intend to send a few units of prayer troops.” Linhardt nods, mentally adding a note to his register. “That’s not all.”

He blinks, a bit taken aback. “Father?”

“The Empire is in need of all the support it can get.” Father’s not quite making eye contact, gaze fixed just above him. “As a show of Hevring’s  _ unwavering _ support of the new Emperor, I intend to send you as well.”

Linhardt’s mouth drops open, icy shock coursing through his veins, protests welling up in his throat, but Father presses onward. “Understand I do not make this decision lightly. I would not do this if I believed you’d be in any real danger. Your job will be to remain at Garreg Mach Monastery, where the army is based, and act as a physician aiding wounded soldiers. It’s incredibly unlikely you’ll see combat, and you’re certainly well enough equipped to hold your own in an emergency.” His father sighs. “You’re a man now, Linhardt.”  _ Barely _ , he thinks. “I’m only sending you because I know it will be no more than you can handle. This is your duty—to your country and to your family. Do you understand?”

Linhardt is still reeling from the news, but he registers everything his father’s saying and nods. “I understand,” he says numbly.

“You’ll do our family justice,” Father says confidently, finally meeting his gaze head-on. “I’m certain of that. Remember the skills I’ve worked so hard to teach you, and you’ll be just fine.”

Linhardt nods again, that icy feeling taking hold of him and rendering him numb. “Yes, Father,” he says. “As you wish.”

* * *

As life-changing as the move to Garreg Mach is, it comes quickly and rather uneventfully. In a week, Linhardt’s packed and setting out with the battalion of prayer troops. The journey is almost boring—the road is clear, the countryside cold and quiet, and the troops don’t talk to him much. Before another week has passed, Linhardt can see it through the mountains. It’s half-ruined by the fighting, but even so, it’s majestic and timeless—Garreg Mach Monastery. Linhardt’s home, at least until the war is over.

Linhardt and his companions make it up to the monastery to find it in disarray. There are soldiers rushing about, people shouting orders, a line of injured being carried off to goddess-knows-where—complete chaos. The Hevring healers peel off to help with injured, following the orders of some general or other. Linhardt spies, in the center of the throng, a flash of bright red and a golden helm. The Emperor.

Linhardt pushes through the crowd. He may not quite understand what courtesy dictates in a warzone, but he does know he’s been sent here specifically to show his father’s support of Edelgard and her cause. He should let her know he’s here as soon as possible.

He manages to make it to her side, surprised by the sight of her—still short, like he remembered, and too young to be in the heavy imperial regalia she wears. Her hair is styled up, supporting a crown that’s far too big for her. She’s surrounded by generals, giving out orders and taking reports, so Linhardt gets in line, so to speak, to present himself to her. Hubert von Vestra, the new Marquis, is, as always, by her side, still tall, dark, and lanky.

Finally, she gets a spare moment to turn to him. She looks… tired. “Ah,” she says. “Lord Linhardt von Hevring, yes? I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Your Majesty,” he says, ever polite, and bows. He feels her gaze, and Vestra’s, heavy on him. A long time ago, Linhardt had desperately wanted to pass whatever test they were presenting him. Now, it’s hard to feel much of anything about them, or what they think. They’re strangers. He straightens up. “My father sent me along with the prayer troops. I’m here to assist the war effort in whatever way you see fit.”

Edelgard smiles, though there’s a persistent dullness in her eyes. “Excellent. Pardon the chaos around here, I’m afraid we’ve just returned from a rather messy fight–” A messenger runs up and steals her attention; she gestures to Vestra, who takes over for her.

“The Emperor will discuss details when she has sufficient time to do so,” he says coolly, the hint of a sneer on his face.  _ No better than he was as a child _ , Linhardt thinks, already growing tired. “For now, if you truly wish to help, head over to the medical station. I  _ assume _ you’re here as a physician.”

Linhardt nods, gives Vestra an appropriately respectful bow, and leaves without a word, choosing to take his orders and avoid eating up any more of the pair’s precious time. He can heal others, easily. He follows the trail of wounded across the monastery’s sprawling campus.

* * *

His wandering leads him to a small lawn that’s been set up with tents and supply tables beside three large rooms with the doors thrown wide open. People are rushing to and fro—physicians, magical healers, assistants with supplies, soldiers carrying wounded. Linhardt has to take a moment to stare, wide-eyed, at the chaos before him.

It’s overwhelming—the groans of the wounded, the scent of death, the  _ blood _ , so much blood, so much more than Linhardt’s ever seen in his entire life, and he feels horribly sick to his stomach, and faint, and he can’t look away from all those soldiers crying and bleeding and  _ dying _ –

“Hey!” An older woman steps into his line of sight, hands on her hips. “I’m talking to you! If you’re not hurt–”

“I’m here to help,” Linhardt says automatically. The woman glares at him, and before his brain catches up enough for him to say anything else, she’s talking again, brisk and businesslike.

“Well, then, let’s put you to work. The Golden Deer classroom—that’s the one on the other end, new guy—is in need of help—what are you, then, physician or healer?”   
  
Linhardt blinks. “Yes-rather–” She’s glaring at him again, and he thinks he’s probably about to be sent home in disgrace after a single day. Well done, Linhardt. “I’m both. Physician and healer. White magic. Ma’am,” he tacks on as a peace offering, and she sighs.

“Head on down to Golden Deer, then. Plenty of people in need of both.” He wastes no time getting out of  _ that _ conversation, and as he flees he thinks he hears her mutter something about “damned kids fighting a war”. He doesn’t have time to ponder that, though, as he pushes through the crowds to the classroom at the other end of the courtyard.

Once again, he has to take a moment to acclimate to sights, sounds, and  _ smells _ of the wounded, but everyone in this room seems to be in better shape, and there’s someone at his back steering him toward a line of cots saying, “Don’t use magic where you don’t have to, don’t overexert yourself, stay calm”, and so he follows instructions—isn’t he good enough at that?—and heads to the first cot, to save the first life.

The man in the cot is unconscious, with a red cloth wrapped tight around his head. Linhardt shudders—head wounds bleed more, yes, it probably isn’t serious, but he starts there, makes sure the slash is as superficial as he suspects it is. It is, but there’s also a nasty bump on the back of his head—a fall, perhaps, or a hit from behind. Beyond that, the soldier is fully armored from the waist down but naked from the waist up save for bandages wrapped hastily around his abdomen. Bandages that are already seeping through red—Linhardt takes several deep breaths, pushes away the unpleasant thoughts about blood and tells himself it’s simple, it’s just like his anatomy textbooks, he can handle whatever’s under the bandages. With that, he sets about peeling the layers away, and somehow, by the time he reaches the wound itself, he’s blocked out the thoughts of blood well enough that he only needs to take a few moments to adjust.

The wound is deep—likely a stab—and Linhardt ( _ don’t think about it don’t remember it’s flesh and blood under you not diagrams or fancy practice dolls _ ) decides he’ll need magic to heal it, and he reaches for that well of Faith ( _ in a goddess who lets men go to war to fight and bleed and die and bleed and bleed and bleed _ ) that lies within him, pulling on it hard to summon a Heal spell that glows as its light fills the awful hole in the poor man’s stomach.  _ Don’t think about it _ . He doesn’t look at the soldier’s face as he works—it makes it easier to pretend he isn’t real, that he’s still playing pretend—but he can’t quite force away the details that had slipped in and wormed into his brain, refusing to be dislodged.  _ He’s young, like you _ , his brain supplies.  _ His hair is the brightest blue you’ve ever seen. Someone wrapped him up and brought him here and trusted him to you, Hevring. If you don’t heal him, he will die _ .

His magic repairs the soldier’s slashed organs, filling and repairing the wound as he grips his Faith tight, and he’s so absorbed in it that he doesn’t realize the man’s come to until he hears his faint gasp. Even then, Linhardt doesn’t look—stays utterly focused on the task at hand—but then-the man speaks.

“Woah,” he breathes, and when Linhardt’s gaze lazily slides over to him he finds blue eyes staring back, wide and as bright as his sweat-matted hair. “You’re  _ beautiful _ .”

Linhardt’s magic falters as he whips his head to fully stare at him. He feels a blush rising to his cheeks—he’s no stranger to compliments, even in regards to his physical appearance, but this? This was sincere,  _ awed _ , as if he were Saint Cethleann herself come down to save this man from death. Almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he’s chiding himself—this man’s barely conscious and suffering from a head injury, so his judgement is hardly reliable. The likelihood of him even remembering this later is slim to none.

“You have a concussion,” he replies, because he has no idea what else to say, and he’s mostly certain of it, anyway, and the man’s brow furrows as he nods, slowly.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little stronger. “That makes sense.” And then his head drops back against the pillows, unconscious again, leaving Linhardt to gaze at him—just a moment longer—then stitch up his wounds and move on to the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone say hi caspar! and now everyone say bye caspar were not talking to you yet get OUTTA here
> 
> i hope you liked it! now that linhardts at garreg mach things are going to be much more interesting lmao. we have exited the prologue! and are now in... the Logue
> 
> big thanks to tael (Ludella) for beta-ing this chapter!! check out her work its neat!
> 
> i love your comments and eat them for strength. what you do with this knowledge is up to you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update! woo-oo! hopefully ill be a bit faster on these while im... locked in my house... with nothing to do... but we'll see
> 
> important note for this chapter: this is all from lins perspective and hes uh been known to be wrong about things. so keep that in mind, he might draw conclusions without them actually being true
> 
> warnings: blood. this is gonna come up pretty frequently bc lin tends to hyperfixate on it. its not described in heavy detail but yeah, he keeps thinking about blood.
> 
> enjoy this chapter!

_**Ethereal Moon, 1181** _

Linhardt spends hours in the infirmary, healing and stitching up wounds and pushing thoughts of blood and death as far away as he can. By the time he’s relieved of his duties, the sun is sinking low, he’s bloodied nearly to the elbows, and his Faith is dried up, leaving him physically exhausted. He couldn’t save everyone, but goddess knows he  _ tried _ . That was all he was ever meant to do—but no, he knows that isn’t true. He isn’t here to  _ try _ ; he’s here to serve the Empire, to make an impression on Edelgard and prove his family’s loyalty, its usefulness, its–

“Kid.” It’s the woman he’d talked to earlier, looking equally spent. And—ugh—equally bloodied. He’s too tired to take her in, really, but she looks too delicate for a warzone. Perhaps such a thing no longer exists. “Listen, kid, you need to rest.”

Linhardt nods mutely, squinting at her. He’s being rude, not speaking, especially as she peers at him with naked concern. He musters all his energy to say, “I don’t know where.”

The woman blinks. “Right, of course. You’re new. Come on, there’s room in the dorms.” She hoists him up, steadying him by the shoulders. He silently lets her steer him out, away from the wounded soldiers and out into fresh, bloodless air. She points him in the direction of the dorm rooms—”Take a right, down to the greenhouse, up the stairs, sixth door to your right”—and sets him off.

Linhardt follows her directions, wandering in a fog. It almost doesn’t feel real, being here. He can’t even absorb the beauty of the monastery grounds, distracted by the metallic scent that sticks in his nose.

He finds the room the head physician had pointed him to, eventually; it’s empty, the bed turned down. Dimly, he realizes he has no idea where his luggage ended up, but he’s too exhausted to go looking for it now. He scrubs his hands and arms until both his skin and the water in the washbasin is pink; then, he collapses into sleep.

All of his dreams are dark and red.

* * *

After that first day, Linhardt’s at a loss for what to do. Neither the Emperor nor Vestra nor any of their workers seek him out to assign him further instructions, and though he has no doubt that the infirmary is in need of more hands, he can’t stand the thought of going back there. Selfishly, he avoids the row of former classrooms, spending most of his time in the dining hall or in aimless wanderings of the grounds, trying to map out for himself what the ancient monastery has to offer. Fearful of punishment—they are, after all, at war with the Church—he avoids the cathedral completely.

He’s been there a week and mapped out much of the area surrounding the dorms—the sauna, the training grounds, the accursed infirmary, the greenhouse, the fishing pond that fills him with an odd nostalgia—when finally, he has the opportunity to speak with someone. Not an opportunity he asked for, by any stretch, but an opportunity nonetheless.

Linhardt, for all the days he’d been there, had taken his meals alone, sitting at the end of one of the long tables in the dining hall, at least some distance from the other soldiers that ate there. That means that there is an open seat across from him when a woman approaches. “Lord Hevring?” she asks, interrupting his daze.

The woman is tall and composed, her face made up and her hair curling delicately over her shoulder. She hardly  _ looks _ like the other soldiers, but she has a commanding presence and speaks to him with absolute confidence. Linhardt idly wonders how she knows his name, if that means she knows  _ him _ ; caught up in that line of thought, it takes him a moment to realize that he’s staring at her, not responding.

“Ah,” he says, awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Miss, um–”

“Arnault,” the woman says brightly, eyes shining. “Dorothea Arnault. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Of course,” he says, like he has any idea who that is. “A pleasure, Miss Arnault.” He thinks she’s beautiful, poised, but not like a  _ noblewoman _ . There’s something about how she carries herself that suggests she is  _ aware _ of it, and how she comes across, in the way a noblewoman would not be. Not to mention she hasn’t once given him an inkling of her rank. But she certainly doesn’t seem like the sort of person who would be in the midst of a warzone.

“Oh, please.” She laughs, a delicate, tinkling sound. Linhardt has never heard a real person laugh like that in his life. “Just Dorothea will do. I was right, wasn’t I? You’re Lord Linhardt, heir to House Hevring?”

“Ah, yes,” he says, straightening up. “My apologies for my rudeness. Yes, that would be me.” He can’t believe he already forgot to properly introduce himself; obviously, he’s too used to moving in circles of people who already know him well. Here, he’ll have to remember to watch his manners carefully. An exhausting prospect.

“No need to apologize, Lord Hevring!” Dorothea says with a little giggle. She gestures to the empty seat across from him. “Would you mind terribly if I stole this seat?”

“Ah, no–” He waves at it, awkward. “Please, be my guest.” It would be far easier, he thinks, if he had any idea what her rank was or how to address her.  _ Arnault _ hardly sounds like a noble name, but goddess knows he doesn’t want to cause a diplomatic incident.

“Oh,  _ thank you _ ,” she enthuses, delicately sliding into the seat across from him. “So sweet of you!”

“Ah. Thank you?” He doesn’t know how to behave around her. She’s being… overly friendly, he thinks. Isn’t she? Suddenly, he’s uncertain. He’s about to ask if he knows her from somewhere when Miss-Lady- _ whoever _ Arnault launches into conversation.

“So, Lord Hevring,” she says, the picture of cheer. And sophistication, too—her posture is perfect, her body carried delicately, with the utmost awareness of herself. Linhardt squints the slightest bit.  _ Too _ perfect. “You only just arrived here in Garreg Mach, yes? How  _ exciting _ .”

_ Yes _ , he thinks,  _ how exciting that I get to fight a war, now _ . Out of politeness, though, Linhardt brushes off the way she treats this like a fun vacation—a point in the noblewoman category, since he’s found nobles treat  _ everything _ like a novelty they’re oh-so-privileged to be experiencing. “Yes,” he says, tone neutral. “Exciting. Although I’m not here by choice–”

“ _ Really _ .” It’s meant to be a question, he can tell, but it comes out… different, and he looks sharply at her to see a gleam in her eye—predatory, perhaps? Or maybe, no, it’s just his imagination. “How odd. I had no idea Emperor Edelgard was in the habit of drafting soldiers.”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” It feels odd to sound so light and conversational when he’s talking about his very life and future, but, well. Nobility. This is how one acts polite. “Rather, I’m here on my father’s request. And I am happy to serve,” he adds hastily, “as House Hevring is nothing but committed to the Emperor’s cause.”

Dorothea is watching him carefully, though that look he’d noticed in her eye earlier is shuttered away. How odd. “Naturally,” she says. “We are all in support of the Emperor’s decision to destroy the corrupt Church of Seiros!” She says this with such flourish that it suddenly clicks for Linhardt— _ acting _ . She’s  _ acting _ , and she’s very good at it—perhaps that was her trade? A commoner, then. Before he can do anything with the information she leans over the table and murmurs, conspiratorial, “But of course, it leaves fine gentry like yourself in a tough spot, right? If the Emperor’s destroying the system as we know it.”

Linhardt looks at her for a few moments, desperately trying to determine what her  _ goal _ is. If she’s a commoner, she may just be trying to win him over, somehow convince him to take her as his bride. She’ll be sorely disappointed, he thinks—Father would never allow it. But she’s trying to… what, ascertain his position? Odd, when he’d just  _ told _ her Father supported the war. He mentally shrugs, even as he remains outwardly inscrutable, and says, “I fail to see the problem. Emperor Edelgard intends to stamp out corruption, yes? It’s a worthy cause. And if that’s the case,” he adds, “House Hevring has nothing to fear.”

Dorothea blinks—surprised, perhaps?—and smiles broadly. “Of course!” she says, chipper, bouncing back from that with all the grace he’d expect from a trained actress. “Anyway, Lord Hevring, I came to find you mostly to  _ thank _ you. My mentor, Manuela, runs the infirmary, you see–” His shoulders tense slightly at the mention of  _ that _ hellscape, but he thinks he hides it admirably with a careful sip of his drink. “-and she was saying that you were of great help after that battle the other day.”

Linhardt slowly lowers his cup to the table, composing himself as he remembers  _ blood, goddess above, all that blood _ and the cup settles with a thunk on the table and he’s fine, here in the present. “Is that so? I’m honored to receive such high praise. I was only doing my part.” In his ears, the words sound dull and meaningless, but they must be more convincing to Dorothea because she positively beams at him.

“What a sweetheart,” she enthuses. “Oh, I only wish  _ everyone _ had your can-do attitude, Lord Hevring! I’ve done infirmary duty once or twice myself, and I know firsthand it’s just no fun.” She pouts pathetically at him. He adds that to the possible evidence that she’s flirting with him.

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” he lies. “No more than my duty as an Adrestian citizen.”

“Abso _ lutely _ ,” she says. Her smile is starting to look a little plastered-on. Well, let it not be said that Linhardt considers himself an expert conversationalist. “You know, Lord Hevring–” She twirls a bit of hair around a finger. It’s quite curly, Linhardt notices, and  _ healthy _ , unlike his hair, which falls straight and settles awkwardly, just brushing his shoulders. “-I think it would be  _ so great _ to get to know you better. If you’re not busy, of course.”

“Ah,” Linhardt says, blankly. “You could. Get to know me now.”

Dorothea laughs, the same tinkling laugh that can’t  _ possibly _ be natural. “Oh, don’t be silly. This is hardly the atmosphere for that.” She winks. Wonderful, Linhardt thinks, she  _ is _ flirting. What a bother. “Maybe we could take tea sometime.”

He’s growing tired, both of her unfailingly energetic company and also just in general. “Sure,” he says. “Ah, I’m finished. I should be going.”

Dorothea’s gaze flicks to his plate—half-full, but it’s true, he  _ is _ finished eating—then back to him. Smiling, smiling. It feels dangerous, somehow. “Of course,” she says, a little quieter, even gentler. “You must have so much to do. Run along then, Lord Hevring. I’ll be seeing you around.”

It feels like a threat. Linhardt smiles briefly at her as he stands, grabbing his plate. “A pleasure, Lady Arnault.” Best, he thinks, to air on the side of politeness.

“Oh, dear,” Dorothea laughs, sounding more sincere this time. “Not  _ lady _ at all. As I said, just Dorothea will do.”

“Of course.” There, that’s his answer. She’s a commoner. He half-bows anyway, out of respect. “I’ll be seeing you, Dorothea.”

“And you,” she says, sugar-sweet. “Don’t hesitate to come find me, Lord Hevring!”

As he finally turns his back on her and that exhausting conversation, he thinks his mind is rather made-up—he won’t be seeking her out  _ at all _ . He slips out of the dining hall and promptly escapes to his room, hoping that a nap might chase the lingering exhaustion away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> linhardt: fuck this this is why i hate making FRIENDS
> 
> so yay, dorothea enters the scene! if she seemed off to you this chapter there is a very solid reason for that so dw too much about it ;)
> 
> huge thanks to the lovely and talented tael (Ludella, go read her ferdibert reincarnation fic) for being a beta
> 
> like i said next chapter should hopefully be soon! have a great day, and if youre stressed about the whole world situation take time for yourself! mental health is as important as physical health


	7. Interlude 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion behind closed doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY here we are, we made it to the first INTERLUDE! interludes, you see, are CHAPTERS, but they have a different pov so they get a fancy name. i know, its awesome. interludes will often have plot things in them, so it definitely wouldnt hurt to give them a read!
> 
> so this first interlude is from dorotheas pov! yay we love dorothea!
> 
> no warnings! enjoy!

**_Ethereal Moon, 1181_ **

“I’m telling you,” Dorothea says, “it’s not that simple.”

They’re meeting in Edelgard’s office, which used to be Rhea’s office, before she turned into a giant dragon and fled to the Kingdom. Edelgard sits on the couch, teacup in hand, all done up in her imperial regalia. Dorothea misses the days when she let her hair down and dressed like one of them, but she understands it, how clothing and styling are armor against a cruel world. Edelgard is an actress on a stage, and time will tell if her story is a tragedy or a triumph.

Saints, but teatime has her waxing poetic.

Hubert is there, too, standing—often pacing—behind her, listening to Dorothea’s report. He’s actually looking better since the war began; he’s paying more attention to personal grooming, which is a blessing, and dressing like some horrible operatic villain, which she loves for the sheer panache of it. Not to mention, of course, the nasty business with his father, now finally and permanently settled—she tries not to shudder at the thought. Beyond that, though, he looks paradoxically less tired despite his tireless work ethic; she suspects splitting the burden of Edelgard’s empire between the seven-the  _ six _ of them has been of great help.

She certainly  _ tries _ to be of help. She’s never quite understood politics the way nobles do, and war games make her sick. She heals when she can, but her Faith is weaker these days than ever. Beyond battlefield magic—and goddess knows she works hard to perfect that, to master spell after spell so she can keep the people she loves safe—she has little to offer to the war effort.

But she can act, that’s for damn sure, and she can act  _ well _ , and, frankly, she’s an awfully pretty face. She was the one who approached Hubert and offered to help him keep an eye on the ranks, but it’s an idea she suspects he would have had eventually. Now, she largely just goes where Hubert points her, sniffing out dissent and true intentions with little more than a bat of her lashes and a few well-placed touches. People tend to underestimate a woman if she acts sweet enough—being a commoner certainly doesn’t hurt—and Hubert, despite not understanding the appeal, knows just how many nobles out there trip over themselves to be polite to a pretty girl. If she acts dumb enough, they answer every question she asks.

What Hubert does with the answers is something she refuses to consider.

“Linhardt von Hevring,” she says. “He’s been absolutely  _ nowhere _ for the past several years, despite being the heir to one of the Empire’s foremost houses. And then he drops in, unannounced, to say he’s joining the war effort and he’s such a great fan of the cause, when he’s coasting by on  _ his _ Crest—you know it doesn’t all add up.”

Hubert sneers. “Another noble brat sent to appease us. His father wants to be spared the disruption of power that is to come.”

“Hevring is already on our side,” Edelgard says quietly. “He’s been supporting us from the start. I’m uncertain why he would take such drastic measures to secure our favor  _ now _ when, to his knowledge, he’s had it all along.”

Dorothea nods. “But this isn’t about Minister von Hevring. This is about the son. Why would he come, and what can we expect from him?”

“Nothing,” Hubert says easily. “He will do no more than follow orders. He’s of no interest.”

“We knew him, a little, when we were children,” Edelgard supplies. Goddess, does her voice sound tired. Dorothea doubts she’s the last meeting on her agenda for the day, and her heart clenches, sympathetic to her plight. “We met in Enbarr, though not long after he returned to Hevring territory and never left again.”

“He was nobody,” Hubert says. He’s resumed pacing again. “Even then, he was a hollowed-out husk that moved only according to his father’s will. I don’t believe he has a single want of his own.”

“Maybe not,” Dorothea allows, although she disagrees. She sees that Edelgard does, too, in the tight press of her lips covered quickly when she sips her tea. “But he has fears. Manuela said she’d never seen a healer so shaken by the sight of blood.”

“I thought Manuela said he was of great help, that he saved a good number of lives,” Edelgard says, frowning.

“He did, yes.”

“But his fear of blood…"

Dorothea shrugs and sips her tea. “I’m only relaying what she told me. I didn’t see him, but she said he was in a daze.”

“He’s a nobleman’s son who’s never worked a day in his life,” Hubert says, arms crossed. “He was  _ shaken _ by the sight of blood because he’s never had to see it so plainly. Simple as that.”

“My  _ point _ ,” Dorothea says, staring him down, “is that there’s more to him than meets the eye. He isn’t just trying to fulfill his father’s wishes–”

“Then he’s trying to prove himself–”

“ _ No _ .” Dorothea shakes her head vehemently. “He doesn’t want to be here. He tried to play it off, but I could tell. He hates being here.”

“But why?” Edelgard says, frustration creeping into her tone. “What would he rather be doing? I just want to understand one thing about him, but he eludes me.”

“Edie,” Dorothea says seriously. “ _ Let me help _ . I’m certain I could crack him, if I just poked enough.”

“He hardly seems worth our time,” Hubert mutters. She shoots him a look to say  _ quiet, I’m working _ . Surprisingly, it succeeds at shutting him up.

“No, I could tell, there’s  _ something _ in there. Not a shell. Not just a puppet for his father. He’s feeling and thinking more than he lets on.”

“And what if those  _ thoughts _ and  _ feelings _ are dangerous to us?” Hubert says, raising a brow. “What if he intends to undermine Her Majesty? What if he’s another delusional idiot with designs on the crown?”

Dorothea meets his gaze, eyes hard as flint. “Then we  _ know _ . I know. And you do what you do best, Hubie.”

Edelgard sets her cup on the table with a sigh. “I do see Hubert’s point, Dorothea. If he isn’t on our side, he’ll only make trouble for us.”

“But better to know he’s not on our side than let him remain an enigma.” Edelgard gives her a Look, and Dorothea gets the unspoken accusation—she’s too involved, and she  _ is _ , but she has to know what’s going on. There’s something to the dullness in his eyes, the exhaustion dripping from his voice even as he tries so hard to keep up appearances. And she’d watched him a bit before approaching—when he thought he was alone, unnoticed, his shoulders had slumped and he’d fidgeted with his sleeves. He isn’t just a self-important nobleman, and he definitely isn’t just a vessel carrying out his father’s will. There’s something more.

“Edie,” she says softly. “He’s eighteen. Younger than us. He’s here in this unfamiliar place surrounded by people he doesn’t know. I don’t want to write him off and leave him floundering. It isn’t–” She sucks in a deep breath. This is a bit of a low blow, but it needs to be said. “It isn’t what the professor would do. She would try to help him.”

Edelgard sighs, looking off somewhere that Dorothea cannot see. The mention of their lost professor makes her muscles tense, her eyes going dark. Dorothea knows it’s harder on Edelgard than on any of the rest of them, even if they all loved Byleth Eisner. She leans over the table, placing her hand on Edelgard’s knee. She knows how hard it is. But… “I’m not leaving him out in the cold,” Dorothea says, her voice soft but final. “He’s just a kid, Edelgard. We can’t treat him like he’s already gone.”

Hubert huffs, and Dorothea shoots him a look. She knows him, knows that he far prefers quick judgements that let him make no-hesitation calls. But she refuses to be like that. She meets his gaze and tilts her head, a silent message—Edelgard doesn’t want to be like that, either.

Dorothea and Hubert both look to her, classmate-friend-general-emperor. Too much, Dorothea thinks, for one girl. She’s still so small. Edelgard looks far-off, not quite connected with them, but she jerks her head in a nod and seems to come back to herself.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, Dorothea’s right. We should assess him, see what he has to offer. He could be of great help. And if he is a threat–” She tilts her head. “-well, it is best to know thine enemy.”

“Thank you, Edie,” Dorothea breathes, grateful.

“You’ll have your work cut out for you,” she warns. “ _ All _ of you. Hubert, you’ll need to get a good read on him, too. And the other members of the Strike Force–” She smiles, sharp. “-I think they should get to know him, as well.”

Dorothea nods. Petra, she knows, is nearly as helpful to Hubert as she is. People have a terrible habit of latching onto her haphazard knowledge of the language and thinking that makes her stupid. Petra’s far smarter than anyone gives her credit for, and good at reading people, to boot. Of the other Black Eagles, she’ll be the most help. Caspar couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, even if he weren’t out of commission, and Bernie would never  _ think _ of talking to a stranger. That really only leaves…

“And what about Ferdie?” she asks primly. She likes to think she is very good at hiding her feelings toward him.

Edelgard offers a smile, though Dorothea can tell it’s dulled by the memory of fresh pain. “As future Prime Minister of Adrestia–” Behind her, Dorothea sees Hubert’s jaw and fists clench. “-he should welcome our… esteemed guest. Wouldn’t you say?”

Dorothea smiles back. Ferdinand, they’ve learned, works best if he doesn’t know he’s working, often providing insight far more useful when he isn’t searching for it. “Understood. I’ll leave it to you two to let him know.”

Edelgard shoots Hubert a look, and he nods, looking a bit pained. Dorothea tries to hide her mirth—poor Hubert. She knows well enough that Ferdie can be a challenge. “Then it’s settled,” Edelgard declares. “Figure him out. Report back to me. I will decide what to do with him.” Edelgard stands, leaving her tea on the table and heading to the window behind her desk; Dorothea’s dismissed. But. She and Hubert exchange a look—Edelgard’s still down after the reminder of their lost teacher. Hubert can handle work, Dorothea knows; she’ll handle Edelgard.

Dorothea joins her with a soft touch at her elbow. Edelgard sighs, staring out the window’s colored glass. “She would have known,” she says softly, lost in a haze of memories. “She knew just how to read people. How to win them over.”

“Edie,” she says gently. She can recognize that Edelgard was only thinking out loud, that a response would hurt more than anything. “Come for a walk with me. You need the fresh air.”

Dorothea cannot contribute much to the war in way of resources or strategy, but she has this—she is an entertainer. She makes worries disappear for a little while. She thinks, if it will make Edie smile, that might be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise that i love ferdinand and one day i will stop bullying him but today is not that day. ferdie stans look away itll be over soon
> 
> ANYWAY i hope this explains why dorothea is acting weird. shes not sincerely flirting with lin oh my god could you IMAGINE. just spying! speaking of, the one good thing about dorothea/huberts paired ending is the fact that the entire opera company becomes a cover story for spying. so sick! hell yeah!
> 
> i hope you liked it! next chapter gets back to our regularly scheduled programming


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grind never stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, back to our regularly scheduled lin programming! woo hoo!
> 
> no warnings, enjoy!

**_Ethereal Moon, 1181_ **

“Can we take a break?” Linhardt gasps.

Petra—the _princess of Brigid_ , who upon meeting him immediately insisted he refer to her by her first name, no titles, which is so far the absolute strangest thing to happen to him, in his life—takes a step back, giving her sword a little flourish. “Five minutes,” she says decisively.

“Nice work out there, Lord Hevring,” Dorothea enthuses from the sidelines. From his understanding, she’s here to patch him up in case he gets hurt.

“Your form is still sloppy,” Vestra sneers from beside her. Allegedly, he’s assessing Linhardt’s combat abilities. Privately, Linhardt’s pretty sure he’s just there to be an ass. “You realize we are at war, don’t you? As it stands, you’d hardly hold your own against a child with a wooden sword, much less a trained soldier.”

“I’m a _healer_ ,” Linhardt complains, the slightest bit of annoyance seeping into his tone. He doesn’t miss the look Dorothea and Vestra exchange, but before he has the chance to comment on it Petra’s handing him a waterskin. He takes a long drink before continuing. “I’m not even supposed to leave Garreg Mach, much less take to the battlefield.”

“We must be prepared for anything,” Vestra says. Linhardt’s never seen a smile so _unpleasant_ , and he figures Vestra must get some horrible joy from watching him suffer through sword drills with a veritable expert. Petra swings her sword with grace, ability, and confidence. Linhardt’s running through half-remembered drills from a time many years ago, before he insisted on switching his focus solely to magic, both assistive and offensive, and thus is in far worse shape.

He also might not be particularly strong on a good day. He’ll admit it.

“Let us try going again,” Petra says, getting into position. Even prepared for a strike, she seems utterly relaxed. Linhardt wonders if that’s due to her expertise, or just because he himself is a pretty pathetic opponent. Maybe a bit of both.

Linhardt sighs and gets into position, sword brandished in one hand, feet spread to give himself a solid base. He _thinks_ he understands the proper form, on paper; it’s the actual manipulation of his muscles into place that gives him trouble, and he keeps getting tired, which in turn makes his footwork even sloppier.

“Your arm is too low,” Vestra calls. Linhardt grits his teeth. _That’s_ not helping any, either. The three of them had cornered him at lunch and roped him into a training session because he’d been too polite to refuse; since then, they’d spent over an hour and a half at this, Petra calmly correcting his stance and leading him in drills while Dorothea remained cheerful and encouraging and Vestra remained rude and critical. His _everything_ hurts by now, his ego perhaps most of all, as he’s clearly out of his league. Not that he’d expected much different.

Petra nods at him once he’s ready, then bursts into motion. Linhardt thinks this is something he’d find beautiful, were he watching it from the sidelines. The play of muscles under skin, the furrow of concentration in her brow, the determined glint in her eye—he’s almost certain that he could watch drills mesmerized, if all soldiers approached their training with such ferocity. He certainly doesn’t enjoy being on the receiving end, though; each parry sends pain shooting down his sword arm, and he keeps falling out of posture as he stumbles under the onslaught. Horrible. He _hates_ training.

“I’m not even a physical fighter,” he grouses after their bout ends (all too quickly—she has no trouble taking him down). “My expertise is with magic, not weaponry.”

Vestra huffs. “And what happens if you’re Silenced? Or faced with the threat of magical exhaustion? Or worse, over-exertion?” Oh, Linhardt’s been scared plenty with the threat of _that_ —his tutors warned him constantly against pushing his magic past its limits and ending up with horrible magic scars. He can’t count the number of diagrams he’d seen based on real examples of mages who pushed themselves past the breaking point. “Even our mages are expected to hold their own in a melee fight, in case the worst should occur.”

“Even you, Hubert,” Petra says. Linhardt looks at her sharply—something in her tone has changed, and though her face remains perfectly impassive, there’s a gleam of _something_ in her eye. “In fact, I have not been seeing you in the training grounds lately.” She looks at Dorothea with a grin, and Linhardt realizes—it’s _mischief_ . Petra’s teasing the Emperor’s right hand man, a trained, deadly assassin who, if rumor has it right, killed his _own father_ to take his title. An assassin who’s glaring at Petra, eyes narrowed.

“You’re _right_ , Petra,” Dorothea says with a little gasp, as if she hadn’t realized as much herself. “You really must keep up with your lancework, Hubie.” _Hubie_ . Linhardt has to cough into his fist to avoid laughing out loud. “Maybe we should get _Ferdie_ here to help you practice–”

“ _Absolutely_ not,” Vestra growls. To Linhardt’s surprise, he looks less furious and more _miserable_ . He’s actually being successfully teased by these two, he realizes. “Von Aegir is busy with his _ministerial_ duties–”

“That is odd,” Petra muses. “I have seen him here practicing often. He is always willing to spar with the other soldiers.”

“Right,” Dorothea says smoothly, still the picture of innocence. “And you know, just the other day he mentioned that he wished you and Edie would count on him a bit more, since he’s so intent on upholding his family’s duties and honor and–” She gestures broadly with a little eyeroll. Ferdinand von Aegir, Linhardt takes it, has not changed much since childhood. “Well, et cetera. So it _sounds like_ he has very few ministerial duties at all, so I’m sure he has room in his schedule to run drills with you, Hubie, if you ask him.”

Vestra glowers at her and Petra for a few moments before turning back to Linhardt, who’s been using this opportunity to relax his sole muscles. “You call yourself a mage,” he grits out.

Linhardt furrows his brow. No fair, taking his attitude out on _him_ , when he hasn’t even said anything. “Yes,” he says, a bit indignant. “In fact, Marquis, I do. As have _most_ heads of House Hevring.” He hopes the implication carries—he’s learned from some of the best.

“Prove it,” Vestra says, jerking his head. “Dorothea will spar with you.” Dorothea looks a bit surprised at that, and she shares one last look with Petra before shrugging.

“Alright,” she says easily. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Lord Hevring.” She and Petra switch places, and she stands ready, eyes bright and smile wide. “I trust you’ve done magical spars before?”

“Of course,” he says, putting his training sword aside—thank the _goddess_. “The typical rules apply, then?”

“Weakened spells,” she agrees. “Go until one draws, or a solid hit to the chest. I’m ready when you are, then.”

Linhardt isn’t all that worried, and he casts a glance at Vestra. It’s a little insulting, really; he’s working off years of dedicated training by the finest magical tutors available, up against someone who couldn’t have more than a year of formal training. Soldier or not, he’s certain he has this in the bag. “You may take the first spell, if you want.”

“Aw,” Dorothea says, batting her eyes. “Sweet of you. Hopefully you don’t intend to go easy on me.” With that, her eyes light up with that same determined fire Petra had, and she conjures a nasty-looking Fire in her palm. 

Linhardt has a moment of appreciation—it’s well-formed, solid; clearly, she’s gotten plenty of practice—and then said fireball is shooting at him, and he barely regains attention in time to sidestep it. Already, he’s conjuring up a simple Wind in response, shooting it off. It manages to nick Dorothea on the arm as she’s just an instant too slow to avoid it completely. Her eyes widen, and she nods appreciatively. “Alright,” she says. “Not a bad hit, there. Let’s see here…”

Before he knows it, there’s another fireball coming at him; it hits him solidly in the leg, causing an unpleasant burning sensation that slows him. Linhardt takes a knee, hissing at the sensation. He jerks his head up to look at her—she’s preparing another spell, and this time he’s ready, rolling out of the way from a rough Thunder spell. He retaliates with his own Thunder, but she spins away from it and shoots another his way.

They trade a few blows, and Linhardt’s satisfied with the number of hits he’s getting on her—as satisfied as he is surprised by how well she holds up against him. Practiced fighter, he thinks. It’s his own fault for underestimating her. Dorothea’s Thunder stings with a nasty shock; her Fire makes the patch of skin it hits burn and itch for a few moments. She’s trying to slow him, to make it easier to hit him with a winning blow, but Linhardt grits his teeth and pushes through the pain, retaliating with every spell in his repertoire—Wind, Fire, Thunder, even a spare Bolganone that makes it harder for her to navigate the training field. They’re more evenly matched than he would have imagined, though privately he thinks he _must_ be impressing even the dour Vestra.

Finally, he pulls it off—a fireball to Dorothea’s leg that leaves her stumbling, followed quickly by a Cutting Gale that hits her square, with the force of a solid punch. She falls back, then raises a hand. “Alright, alright,” she says, a little breathless. “I give.”

Linhardt sits heavily on the ground, panting. The sparring match so soon after his rough drills with Petra have left him exhausted. “Good match,” he says sportingly.

“And to you,” Dorothea says, gracious. “You do know your stuff. Although you got lucky—my strongest spells aren’t really safe for use in the training grounds.”

Linhardt raises an eyebrow—what the hell kind of spells does she _know_ —but Vestra speaks before he can ask. “Yes, yes, quite a show.” He looks a bit miserable; Linhardt figures he’s disappointed that he actually _can_ hold his own in a magical fight, and that makes him vindictively pleased. “You should continue to hone your Reason, of course. And I should _hope_ this goes without saying–” Once again, his face curls into a sneer. “-but you will need to keep working on your swordplay.”

Petra, in the midst of helping Dorothea up, beams at him. “I am more than happy to be training you, Linhardt.” He tries not to dwell on the fact that he is, apparently, on a first name basis with the future queen of Brigid. “Although you need not stick to swords, if you are not wanting to.”

“That’s right,” Dorothea says brightly, offering him a hand up once she’s steady on her own feet. Linhardt graciously accepts the help. “We’ve got people here who know all sorts of weapons. You could train with any of them! Ferdie’s kind of our resident lance expert–” So that’s out completely, he thinks. “Or you could ask Edie to help you with axework!” Linhardt contemplates asking the _Emperor_ for tips on his form with an axe and shudders. No, thank you. Besides which, he can’t even _imagine_ lugging a big axe around.

“I think I’ll stick to swordplay,” he says dryly. Petra shrugs.

“Dress yourself,” she says brightly.

“Petra, dear, it’s _suit_ yourself,” Dorothea says gently.

“Ah. Yes. That.” Petra frowns, clearly disappointed that she’d misremembered the figure of speech.

“In any case, Linhardt–” _That’s new_. Apparently after their bout Dorothea had decided they were better friends? He doesn’t mind, exactly, but it is a bit unexpected. “-if you change your mind, there’s plenty of skilled fighters around–”

“I should hope so,” Vestra mutters.

“-who would be _more_ than happy to train you in something else. Oh, maybe you could take up grappling!”

Petra lets out a noise that Linhardt thinks _must_ be a smothered laugh. Probably because the idea of him in hand-to-hand combat is even _more_ ridiculous after his pitiful display of swordsmanship. “Ah, maybe not,” he mutters.

“Oh, why not? It’s quite handy. So I hear. If you don’t even need a weapon to fight, you’re prepared for the absolute worst case scenario. Isn’t that right, Hubie?”

Vestra starts a little at that, as if he hadn’t expected the conversation turned to him. “I suppose,” he says. “But it’s ineffective unless you’re possessing of…” He gives Linhardt a meaningful once-over, which he personally feels is uncalled for. “Shall we say, _exceptional_ strength.”

Dorothea shrugs. “Maybe. But it isn’t like Caspar wouldn’t be excited for someone to train with.”

Vestra’s eye twitches; Linhardt is immensely curious to know what it is about this Caspar that causes such a reaction. “Well, that’s true, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes, Lin–” Dorothea turns her bright smile onto him, as if she’d forgotten him entirely. “You haven’t met him, I’m afraid.”

“You would be knowing if you had,” Petra says helpfully. Dorothea laughs.

“Yes, most likely! He’s very friendly. And he’s an excellent brawler, really. If you wanted to learn from anyone, he’d be the one.”

“Well,” Linhardt says awkwardly. “I’m not sure that’s the best choice for me.”

Dorothea, eyes still sparkling— _That’s it_ , Linhardt realizes, recognizing that gleam, _she’s making fun of me_ —shrugs. “If you say so. Maybe next time you can practice swordplay with me. I’ve been meaning to brush up.”

Petra frowns. “Ah, but Dorothea, I was thinking that _we_ –”

Dorothea nudges her, unsubtly. Linhardt wonders what in the world she so desperately needs to spar with him for. “We’ll get in plenty of practice, of course, Petra,” she says, soothing. “But Li-Lord Hevring and I need _so much_ more work that we’ll devote some extra time to it together! It will be a blast.” She looks at him. “Don’t you think?”

Linhardt blinks. “Ah. Yes. Very… blast… ing.”

Dorothea laughs loudly, and Petra grins. “Then it’s settled! Let’s break for today.” She says this with a glance at Vestra, who inclines his head slightly in agreement. “Wonderful. I’ll fetch Ferdie for you, Hubie, and you can work on your–”

“ _No_ ,” Vestra says, a bit desperate. “That will not be necessary. I have other matters to attend to—important meetings, the like.” He gives a cursory nod to all three of them before making his escape. Linhardt envies him a little—he’s not entirely sure he can handle being alone with these two, all of a sudden.

“Alright, Linhardt,” Petra says. “We should be getting you something to boost your energy! After this working out, you are surely hungry.”

Linhardt blinks, surprised. “Oh. Ah. Thank you.” He offers his arm to Petra, gentleman that he is; she ignores it, but Dorothea slips her arm around his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Well. Fine, then.

“Come on then, Lord Hevring! The dining hall makes this _lovely_ sweet bun dish that always gives me a good boost after a training session…”

Linhardt lets the wave carry him along. All things considered, he thinks, Petra and Dorothea might not be too bad. They’re smarter than they want him to think, he thinks—something about the way they speak to him is odd. _Off_. He thinks this whole thing was a test, and not just the obvious test of his combat abilities.

For the life of him, he wishes he understood what it _was_. He’s getting tired, he thinks, of people concocting schemes right under his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BULLY! FERDINAND!
> 
> as a heads up, updates are going to be... very, very slow for the foreseeable future. sorry, yall, writers block is hitting HARD and idk when ill be out of this rut. soon, i hope!!
> 
> that being said, i still need comments for vital strength so any that you have to spare would be greatly appreciated. stay safe, stay healthy, and have a good day!

**Author's Note:**

> @atinygayfrog on twitter, cutiestpi#9038 on discord
> 
> have a great day!!


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